


shimmers across the galaxy

by TheKitteh



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3, Past Kaidan Alenko/Commander Shepard, Post Destroy Ending, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were many occasions, many moments shared between the two. Each was precious and one of a kind - in other words, a collection of short ficlets about Garrus Vakarian and female Shepard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. out of time

The intensity of the stares made her feel like they were drilling through the thick cover of her armor, but she couldn’t care less. Right now, she was way past the point of caring, not after everything they’ve been through together, not with his last words echoing in the back of her mind and especially not with the desperate manner they clung to each other.

And while clinging should be the last word anyone would ever associate with the Savior of the Galaxy – third time running it seemed – Shepard couldn’t talk herself into give a flying fuck.

Neither did Garrus, if the low rumble and the urgent tug was any indication.

Especially if one would consider they were surrounded by his people.

But they didn’t have the luxury of time; to think this through, to worry, to rationalize…  

Why couldn’t they have just a _little_ more time…? Everything so quick – first night before Omega, then just a few short weeks and then she was taken away… Now they were on a road that would lead them to nothing short of destruction and no heated words could charm the reality. 

Her eyes stung suddenly, vision blurred and all she could see was a haze of fuzzy lights and distorted shadows, as her turian dragged her from prying eyes and shocked gasps.

She never wished for anything for herself, always put others – friends, commanders, whole planets, whole races -  above her but right now, in the dark corner of a ruined building she _prayed_ for a few moments, few short minutes…Her whole world shrank to the small space between them and the bright of his eyes.

Her fingers and his talons worked their latches and clasps almost unconsciously, too accustomed to undressing themselves to even pay attention to the task. Garrus leaned closer, her mouth soft and hot and desperate on his plated one and it was the best feeling in the whole world.

In all of the worlds.

Bits and pieces of armor clanked to the rubble at their feet, her shirt yanked up and pants pulled down.  Garrus’ body  was so, so warm, so familiar and it made her choke on a sob that refused to be stopped. Her fingers traced the sides of his face, his arms wound around her waist, supporting and holding and she never wanted him to stop.

Difference in races be damned, because they were nothing short but perfect to each other, her soft skin pressed against the hard angles of his plates.

And like all those scarce times before, he filled her – in all meaning of the word – and even with the coarse concrete scratching against her back, this was heaven _._

“Hey, hey…,”, his voice rumbled through her, gentle and soothing and it cased her heart to bleed as he licked along her jaw line, catching tears and sweat and her hands slipped underneath the sharp spiked of his fringe.

Pressing herself closer, rocking and wishing she could imprint the feel of his body, to burn  the way they fit together into her skin, Shepard cried and kissed his scars, his markings and just everywhere she could reach.

“I’m sorry…,” she blubbered, the weight on her shoulders too much after all and his hands gripped her hips, “I’m so sorry, Garrus, so sorry…”

He let out a growl, snapped his hips and nuzzled the crock between her neck and shoulder, his hot breath tickling that scar he left there months ago, “It’s ok…” and once again it came out a rumble, one that soothed and caused pain in the same time.

But it never was ok, _they_ never had the chance to be truly ok and the knowledge that they never _will_ was suddenly too much.

“I love you,” she choked out again as she pulled herself even closer; why couldn’t it be possible to simply melt into each other, to remain forever like this…?, “I’m so…”

“I know,” his voice was strained, his hold desperate and Shepard felt her whole body tense and nerves sizzle, “I love you, I understand… Spirits …”

Her eyes burned with too many tears and sweat, her body trembling as whispers left their mouths. Whispers of reassurance, because it was too late for promises and orders and anything else at all. She wanted him to know, to remember, and he wanted her to realize, to understand.

Shepard gasped his name, her back aching and the world melted and her eyes closed, the heat between them unbearable and yet it was still too little…

She heard him growl and in her haze she tried to memorize it as best as she could, because what if she never would have the chance to listen – to feel, to touch, to kiss, to love – him ever again…? Her legs around his hips, her weight nothing to his turian strength, and they breathed in their desperate release.

And when the cold, harsh reality slowly came into focus, Shepard tucked her head under his chin, pressed her face against the soft skin of his neck.

“Come on,” she loved what he could do with his voice and how it would wash over her, “Look at me Shepard…”

And of course she did as he said, not once missing the chance to stare into the blue of his eyes and he pressed his forehead against hers. The warmth of his body enough to keep the chill of the night and the assault away from her, his hold still sure, still desperate and she never wanted to let go of this.

But they were facing impossible odds and they knew all too well how it could end, despite their heated words and promises to each other made through the last weeks…

“That order still stands, Commander,” Garrus growled then, _forcing_ his hands away from her and allowing Shepard to stand on her won, shaky legs.

Her lips were red and bruised, her back a stinging mess as she pulled her shirt down but she stared at him with the all too familiar confidence.

“You bet it does, Vakarian.”

*          *          *

Was death supposed to feel like this?

She could barely remember her first time dying, being spaced and all her consciousness escaping her before anything excruciating began.

 _This_ was different. This was bloody awful, as if her chest was burning, heavy as if filled with lead and the darkness around her was nothing short of pressing.

Her memory was a fuzz; mutilated corpses mixed and meshed with bright, blinding lights, the smell of gunfire blended with something artificial, inhuman, _alien_. She couldn’t quite recall what happened and where was she now…

There was a child…? A … path…?

_Anderson!_

He was the last clear memory – his death, quiet and soft because his life bled out of him with no hurry – and it made her gasp, the sound torn and painful.

For a fleeting second it was the only noise around her, save for her breathing become more shallow, more raspy, and then the darkness _shifted._

A loud rumble nearly deafened her, pieces of stone showering upon her face and beaten body and then light flooded her, made her blind.

So this was it then…

Shepard breathed out in sudden relief, the crushing feeling gone and already forgotten, her body relaxing and finally she could feel her hear beat slowly, tiredly.

And then there were warm – painfully warm – hands holding her face; they were strangely shaped, her fuzzy mind registered, and slightly rough and the fingers against her skin were oddly sharp…

She forced herself to open her eyes, breath hitching at the chance of impossible.

Everything was a blur, but she could make out the distinctive blue shade of Garrus’ eyes. Talons cupped the back of her head and she heard the low rumble, felt it run through her tired body.

“Good girl.”

 


	2. exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus' spin on explorations leave Shepard more or less breathless.

She wasn’t really sure, but certainly there _had_ to be a law against this somewhere in the Galaxy.

Then again, she wasn’t sure of many things right now, her name for example or time of the day, but certainly, anyone knowing tricks like that just had to be illegal.

Besides, weren’t turian _avian_ …? Where the fuck did he ever learn to use his…

_Oh!_ With her brain coming to a screeching, delightful stop, she couldn’t help but moan out loud at the surge of heat that shot through her.

Her fingers tightened on the hardened spikes of Garrus’ fringe, earning a satisfied hum – cocky bastard, she managed to think through the haze of pleasure, he _knew_ what that sound did to her – and he rubbed the unscarred side of his face against her thigh. And then, with another flick of a rough tongue,  he had her throwing her head back against the glass. Her knee was aching and wobbly, supporting all of her weight, but if he kept doing that, she didn’t want to _ever_ change the position she found herself in.

Now, one of his large hands was a steady, pulsating warmth that gripped the sharp of her hip, keeping her in place as she writhed between the glass and his body.

Shepard may have rasped his name at a few occasions - or mewled or cried even - but she wasn’t really aware of small things like that by now and as sure as hell she didn’t give a damn.

Ironically enough, she was the one to call him up, to discuss the latest signals that came up on the scanner and whether they should or not go exploring the nearby planet. She wasn’t really sure she wanted to, with Normandy still recovering from the beating it too after the Omega 4 relay jump.

She called him up because she needed some insight.

Only to find out that Garrus had a completely different idea about how the said _exploring_ should go. And a very interesting outlook on the said insight…

Somehow, in a matter of minutes, she found herself trapped between cold glass and a hot turian, pants yanked down and one leg over his shoulder, his tongue leaving a burning trail on the inner sides of her thighs. Fuck, he had her quivering and grinding against his talented mouth and he knew it. She felt the flare of the mandibles against her skin too often not to realize that.

Whatever he was meant to explore, he was very, very _thorough_.

Not that Shepard minded, because really, with her insides coiling hot and tight and his talons scratching the length of her leg who was she to stop him?  

Her hips jerked as his tongue curled and the happy hum turned into a deep growl, resonating through her and adding to the sensations she felt.  And then his mouth was gone, and she whimpered by the loss, nerves sizzling and her hands tightened their grip on his fringe again.

He chuckled and Shepard gritted her teeth.

She would throw him out of the goddamn airlock in the next few _seconds_ if he didn’t…

Starts promptly exploded in front of her eyes as he slipped one blunted talon inside, curled it at just the right angle and then he licked the hardened nub. She may have cried out then, really _cried,_ and rocked her hips against his hand. It earned her another growl, and a hard squeeze of her buttock and the scratch of his talons against her sweat covered skin became her undoing.

She barely registered groaning out his name.

There was a dull pain in the back of her head – she must have hit the glass again, _hard_ and she scared the light out of her poor fish -  and she felt bloody limbless, as Garrus waited for her to come down from her high and untangled her leg from his shoulder. Tired and sated, she gazed down at him, as he nipped and licked around exposed skin – still firmly on his knees and his hands were so warm – and she tried to gather her wits about.

Proved to be harder than she ever imagined, with a pleasant pull and an aroused turian between her legs.

“Well…” she rasped, wanting nothing more than to collapse in a heap of tired limbs and just enjoy the afterglow, preferably tucked lazily under the said turian’s chin, “Fuck…”

Garrus looked up then, over the expanse of her upper body, the brilliant blue of his eyes taking on a dark and stormy hue and inside of her, another wave of heat started to raise. He raised himself slowly, making her shudder with anticipation as his talons snipped at the flimsy excuse of a tank top she wore. The pieces of cloth fell to the floor and her body tensed in anticipation.

The realization that she stood before him like that – naked and flushed, thighs slick with his saliva and her arousal – made her sway, a moan escaping her as he drew a lazy circle  over an already hardened nipple.

Such a simple motion, but it made her whimper greedily and press against his _still_ clothed body.

“That comes later,” he rumbled and again his voice seemed to vibrate through her, pool deep inside of her, his breath scorching hot over one ear, “There’s still the upper part to _explore_ ”

She wasn’t sure of almost anything by now, not when he again put that tongue to use once again and not when his talons were mapping out every goddamn curve her body had to offer.  

Well…

One thing was for sure.

Simple explorations were effectively ruined for her now.  

     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on [ tumblr](the-kitteh.tumblr.com)


	3. exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Thessia, Shepard can't catch her breath.

The door hissed quietly as it slid behind the journalist, and Shepard sighed, leaning heavily onto the cold glass of the fish tank. 

There were days when she really wished she didn’t need any help she could get, as dealing with interviews was never her good trait, if her unfortunate _meetings_ with Khalisah al-Jilani were anything to go by, and even the fact that Allers tried to keep things professional didn’t make this easier. 

Tried being the key word there.

Allers’ eyes were always smouldering and heavy, and she was everything that Shepard was not. Flirty and sensuous, with a hip-sway that made half of the crew stop and stare, and a definite knack for any kind of information that would make a good story to sell. But it was all for the greater good, Shepard told herself, as the cold from the glass seeped through the thick material of her hoodie. 

It was a good feeling; the chill creeping up her back. 

It was a _different_ feeling and it helped her imagine that she didn’t feel the heat and flames that surrounded her as Thessia burned, collapsed around her.  Her throat tightened, bile rose and she pressed herself  even more against the glass. 

She has used up all of her energy during the briefing, anger no longer fuelling her actions. But her demands were answered, they had a clue, a small lead and she _would_ follow it, no matter how slim the chances. Now, after a quick round around the ship and a few talks here and there, she felt spent, sucked dry and her skin began to burn.

And she still agreed on an interview, because Allers stated that the viewers needed hope, needed her beliefs and strong words and Shepard almost burst out with laughter in reporter’s face at that.

She barely had any herself.

Because how could she…? Just how in the world could she believe that everything would be alright, when she allowed the hope for a better tomorrow be snatched from her fingers?

Liara lost her home because of her. She should have known better. She should have _been_ better.

The door hissed again, no knock, no request of entry and her arms tightened around her frame – she didn’t even remember moving them at all – listening to the soft bubbling of the air filters and the all too familiar sound of booted talons against her cabin’s floor. 

The way her fingers dug into her sides was almost painful and maybe it could make her forget about the other kind of pain that ripped her from the inside.

They already talked, his news of his family a small white dot in the sea of misery, but then his eyes clouded and mandibles tightened as he told her of the decisions he made. She cracked just a little in front of him then – in the company of Normandy’s guns and the familiar scent of oil – and he only gave his support, through words and touch alike.

Now Garrus stood in front of her, hands on her elbows and Shepard swayed slightly, her head swimming. As usual, his body was much warmer than that of an  average human, and the contrast between the cold glass and his warmth made her weak in the knees.

While the fires that devoured Thessia were still etched into her mind, while she still could feel the heat of explosions and the licks of flames, Garrus’ body heat was something different.

Completely different, most welcomed and _so_ missed – she would never admit to anyone but herself just how lonely her six months on Earth were – and it made her feel safe. A rare luxury in these hard times and he gave it so openly… 

Her hands fell to her sides, felt laden as she willed them to move and rest at the sharp of his hips. 

A hum escaped her; she _liked_ his hips. And something uncoiled within her with each of their shared breaths.

Garrus shifted,  accommodating her feet between his and he rested his forehead against the top of her messy head. Enfolding her completely, making her breath hitch for too many different reasons. 

He took of the chest-plate already and she was trapped between the cold and heat, and somehow it made breathing a little bit easier. Her fingers tightened and he made a sound, soft and alien and it was her undoing.

She pressed her face into the strange material of his clothes, his arms coming around her and holding, hiding her for just a moment. Shepard wanted to say something, anything that would break the silence and the sound of bubbles, but her mind was blank and she found herself too damn tired to try anymore.

She needed this, needed him, now, when she was at the brink of crashing and breaking down.

One talon rubbed against the small of her back, small circles that made her sigh and melt and she made herself comfortable in his embrace. 

“Stay,” she muttered against his chest, eyes heavy and sore and maybe, if he would, she could wind down for once.

This time he hummed, light and agreeable, as he moved again, and his breath tickled her ear,  one mandible brushing against her cheek as he spoke, “Disrupting the crew already, Commander?”

Flames flickered behind her lids, but they were not from the asari homeworld and the corners of her lips arched just a bit. His hold tightened as if Garrus could _feel_ when she smiled and she felt limbless. 

“With you, Vakarian?” she said, finally looking up at him and her lips brushed against the hard ridge of his mouth, “Always.” 


	4. warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This used to be a stand-alone ficlet, but I fail to see reason why it shouldn't be included in this. 
> 
> A little bit updated since the original version.

She likes the warmth, she muses. 

She likes the way it seems to roll off of him, in long,lazy waves and then crashes against her chilled skin. It makes her feel content, calm… it makes her feel safe. 

And for her, it seems like _eos_ have already passed ever since last time she felt safe. With always something looming just around the corner, like a deadly shadow in the peripheral of her bright eye; a request, an order, a threat … and sometimes, simply her heart’s burning wish. It all brought her into the eye of the storm, again and again and again, where she was anything but safe.

Where death was an all too familiar cold weight on her shoulder and a foul taste in her mouth.

Sometimes - the woman sighs against the smooth, warm surface of the pillow - she thinks she really does have a death wish.

Or if someone misplaced a part of her brain, the one responsible for sane, rational behaviour and for well developed sense of self-preservation - during the process of her rebuild, no, during her fucking _resurrection_ , she corrects herself.

Because no one, not one soul, be it human or turban or hanar, just simply no one in their right mind would willingly expose themselves to even a small portion of what she had endured.  

It’s the silent, snow covered memory of Alchera that is constantly wedged into her memory these. Not the fights, not the sting of bullets or their hisses in the air, not the sound of heat sinks falling to concrete, to grass, to tiles… not the screams as flesh and armor scorched in an incineration blast. It’s not the rush of blood, not to wild thump of her own heart. But the calm, eerie glow of rusted dog-tags, it’s a blanket of snow, it’s the loud silence and the sight of thevast, alien sky where _she died_.

It never ceases to make her throat close and stomach churn. 

She really does like the warmth, she sighs, as a very warm, large hand sweeps lazily across criss-cross scars on her stomach. Talons scrape lightly against puckered flesh and she wants to move closer, to nestle herself so soft and pliant, to curl against plates and hardened skin. 

And she would too, if only not for how bloody _limbless_ she feels right now.

How, in every god’s name possible, he ever found this little piece of heaven was beyond her, but she would be eternally grateful that he did. Even if, considering all odds and the skies burning all over the galaxy, that eternity is bound to prove horrifically short.

She sighs again, the sound heavy as it should never be, and he presses against her, all hard edges and strong lines, causes her skin to tingle where it’s stretched over her tired bones. Her heart swells inside of her chest, fast and familiar and she thinks it’s about to burst and then he pulls her closer, plates scratching and his breath hot against her shoulder.

All of that warmth changes into a steady heat, one that wraps around her like lazy licks of a flame, and she wants to stay and burn in the confinement of his arms and shadows.

It’s… scary. 

To want and to need someone this much.

But right about now, she thinks it’s a good kind of scary. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks quietly and the words ghost over her skin, like his hands did moments ago.

She forces her hand to move and rest atop his, her soft skin to his hard talon, and replies in a soft murmur, “That I don’t want to move.”

There’s a soft click, a tickle where his mandible flared and his embrace tightens.

“Good.” He says, voice resonating through him, through her bones her and a _different_ kind of warmth starts to pool inside of her. 

He shifts ever so, his touch now scalding and forcing and causing all of her nerves to sizzle, and she decides that maybe she can move _a just little bit more_. 

The warmth – his, his, _forever his,_ she chants only within the depth of her mind, because her mouth is too occupied with the taste of his name – is behind her, above her, all around and inside out and her fingers clench clumsily on his talons.

Around them, all the worlds and stars and burning moons seem to be all gone, leaving just them, only them.

In the shadows of destruction, they burn and blaze like a goddamn supernova and she really, _really_ likes the feeling. 

 


	5. fresh pair of eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The solid friendship between the human commander and the turian Reaper advisor was a well known fact. But still, there were whispers of 'mor'e and on one night, Primarch Victus realizes what that more really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the ff.net version.
> 
> ME3 timeline: set right before "Priority: Tuchanka."

 

The reports just … kept coming.

The deaths of people, Spirits, _his_ people became mere numbers now, hundreds and thousands of them, turning up on the datapad with each passing minute. It took everything not to clench his talons around the blinking screen or not to throw it against one of the many stations installed in the room. 

Dammit all, he should be there with his men! He should be out there, fighting, protecting, resisting, dying…

The red and blue image of the Crucible flickered suddenly - the light bright, too bright - caught his attention, caused him to draw a deep, forced breath and calm himself. There was no use and no point in clawing at what used to be, at what _he_ used to be. New responsibilities came with the new position and the Primarch rolled his shoulders, trying to ease even the smallest bit of the tension that has long since settled in.

It was in rare moments like these, when he found himself alone, accompanied by the hum of engines and the orange hue of the various datapads scattered all around, that the reality became simply suffocating.  

Because this time, the krogan – Urdnot Wrex, the famed Battlemaster himself - that usually accompanied him in the room, was gone for the night, Spirits only knew where exactly his bunk was. And even if it meant that his dark thoughts would be his only companion on this night, the Primarch was somewhat glad for the solitude.

The distinctively unsubtle death glares and muttered curses – thrown from both sides, just to be fair - weren’t exactly what he needed right now. The atmosphere between them was straining, causing his nerves to sizzle in anticipation for _something_ and Victus almost eagerly awaitedthe short moments when Commander Shepard made her way into the room, to report to her Admirals and then to spare a few words with both of them. She always did that, despite her own weariness and stiff neck, always took some time to check up on them. Those were the times when the mutual krogan/turian tension seemed to dissolve, even if for a short moment, but it was a most welcomed relief none the less. 

Shepard tried her damn earnest to get both of them on the right track, to keep them focused on the bigger picture in front of them, no matter if it meant using harsh, soldiery words at him or actually head-butting Wrex – she did that once already, taking both of them by surprise and the bruise on her forehead she sported later on was simply _magnificent_ – into listening. His mandibles flared in a tired, turian grin at the memory. 

Oh, now he could understand why Vakarian always spoke so highly of the Commander, his admiration of the woman causing more than surprise among his kind. But despite all of the lingering mistrust between their two species, Shepard could only be respected and she truly was a force to be reckoned with. Victus also could _almost_ understand what made the younger turian willingly follow her into hell and back. Again. What was it, their third time running now? The Primarch shook his head, feeling something coil tight inside of him all of the sudden. 

They were once again taking on the impossible.

Shepard sure knew how to pick her battles.

His eyes were sore now, from the constant onslaught of orange and blue light and he felt the overwhelming need to get out. A need to leave the room, change the surroundings, a need to just… just move. It was late into the night, if he still remembered correctly the passage of the cycles, as they all were the same right now, divided only by Shepard’s fast steps and incoming reports. The Alliance soldier’s surely have gone to their quarters, and the ship herself was quiet, the hum and buzz of electronics the only sound that reached his ears.

And with his heart hammering against his chest - Spirits, the way it tried to beat its way out, he felt like a mere fledgling -  the Primarch left the all too familiar war room.

It felt like he was at the point of dragging his feet by then, as he made his way towards the mess, throat suddenly dry and tight. He knew there was a hefty supply dextroamino drinks in there somewhere,as Shepard made sure the aliens aboard her ship would feel as welcomed as possible. Considering that he himself managed to walk in on Garrus and that asari doctor, Liara T’Soni, _lounging around_ with drinks in hand, she managed do achieve just that. 

The corridor that led from the elevator to the mess was short and dark, the air there strangely cool. It felt nice, a change from the stuffy atmosphere of the war room. It felt like he could breathe again.

“There’s beer for you somewhere in there.” The Commander’s voice rang loud and clread, just around the corner and it made Victus stop in his tracks. 

He didn’t expect her. Humans ran on more sleep than his kind, and from the silence around he assumed even Shepard retired for the night.

Right now, he felt stretched long and so, so thin and needed a breather, a moment of peace and meeting with first human Spectre was a task he would gladly postpone. Until, let’s say, next morning. Or maybe even afternoon.

“Now, why weren’t these here when we hit the Collectors’ base? I sure could use a few back then.” 

Oh.

Victus didn’t expect Garrus as well and something gnawed at the back of his mind.

He should leave, his own drink forgotten. Leave the two soldiers to their own. Because there were startled whispers, tiny hushed voices that reached even down to the war room, rumors he paid no attention to. And Spirits, it was below a man of his position to eavesdrop like this.

A sigh was torn out of him before he even realised the heaviness of his heart.

But it was too deep into the night to care about social graces and he was so tired, so … so sick of the constant news flash about deaths and causalities and the overwhelming feeling of despair.  

He closed his eyes at the soft _tsst!_ sound of can being opened, at the wave of weariness that crashed all over him and told himself, it was just for a moment. Just a chance to claw at something that was, that _had_ to be normal. 

Even if it was normal for someone else.

“Really? Leading my fire team piss drunk? How is that stylish?” There was a strange, smooth quality in the Commander’s voice, a lull to her words that usually was accompanied by small smile.

In these dark and desperate times, she smiled rarely enough and everyone had no option but to notice what changed when she actually did.

Garrus chuckled and it drowned out the soft clicks of armored feet against the metal floor. Something rattled, clanked lightly then – he took his seat, Victus was sure of that – and another two clicks followed.

“Really, Vakarian?” Shepard kept her voice light, almost teasing and it made Victus wonder about those whispers,  “Feet on the table? More and more classy.”

“Well, I couldn’t do anything less than that, could I? Would hate to disappoint you.”

Their tiny banter seemed so out of place, so painfully ... ordinary it made Victus’ chest constrict in a sudden pain. It was as if they weren’t trying to save the Galaxy from imminent destruction, as if they weren’t standing up against forces that wiped out grand civilisations that flourished bright and powerful before theirs.

But that was what he wanted, just moments ago…right? A grasp on something normal. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

There was a sudden sigh and a clank of glass against metal..

“You weren’t joking were you said they’re fading.” Shepard’ said after a while and there was something different in her voice. 

Human voices were hard to read, so damn flat and unable to carry the whole spectrum of emotions like turian voices did and so Victus was unable to pinpoint what changed exactly. Yet, somehow, he knew _something_ did. 

“Oh?” Garrus hummed, “So, I should get out and get some new ones? I’m sure I’ll have more than one opportunity to do so.”

She gave a watery kind of laugh and took a deep, clearly shaken breath.

“I’m sure you will.” Silence barely managed to stretch over the mess when she spoke again. “Don’t… don’t do that, though. It was bad enough back on Omega and I don’t think I can …”

“Shepard…”, he tried to interrupt her but she stubbornly continued, voice strangely unsteady and Victus’ curiosity spiked at that.

“I mean, shit Garrus, half of your face is bad enough, and if I see you trying to stop another missile…”

Garrus’ scars were indeed a painful sight, an ugly webbing of knit-together flesh, but the turian himself seemed to no longer mind. Most of the time, he seemed strangely proud of them, in fact. But the reason of Shepard’s clear concern was beyond him and why would she bring that subject up right now, in the first place, when… 

“Shepard, stop this.” Garrus said, voice sharpening the tiniest bit and Victus blinked, for it was no way for a soldier to talk to his commanding officer, “You couldn’t save Tarquin.”

The Primarch’s eyes glazed, his chest heavy and burning. Tarquin. His son. His…  Shepard was cool and strangely understanding when she told him of his son’s death, of how he sacrificed himself for the greater good. The phrase was as cliche as one could be and oh how he hated how true it still was. How Tarquin did what was expected of him, both as a good turian and as a general’s son.

She had kept her eyes averted, talked faster than usual and her step was was heavier as she left him alone. He had thought it a small courtesy towards him and nothing more.

Never once did he thought it could mean anything for her.

Around the corner, Shepard sighed heavily and Victus could literally see the way her shoulders slumped right now, how her head hanged low and how all of that impossibly red hair fell into her face. 

“But I wanted to.” She said quietly, voice almost meek like it had no right to.

By all of Spirits, he should leave, Victus knew that, but with such a heavy heart the only thing he could do was remember how it was to breathe in and out, in and out, over and over again. Because this was no time for mourning, not with  thousands of lives gone with each passing minute and who was he to selfishly suffer of his own loss…?

“We’re about to save a whole race,” Garrus’ voice turned both hard and soft, the duality of his tone rare but not that uncommon, “And he died to do the same, Shepard. Don’t take that away from him.”

“I know, I know. I just… wanted this to go right,” she muttered and Victus heard the other turian chuckle again. “I just need one thing to go right.”

“Oh, quoting your Gunnery Chief now, Commander? Huh, always knew my speeches were inspirational.”

The teasing was back in his voice, sharp and clear and Shepard barked out a laugh and Victus suddenly breathed easier. Good, good,  back to the friendly banter and nothing more. Still, he felt horrible, listening on a conversation that surely was never meant for anyone but the two of friends. 

“Very,” another clank of bottles and this time her voice seemed _lighter_ , and he wondered if he could too, and then much softly she added, “Thanks, Garrus.”

He pushed himself off the goddamn wall, making just enough sound to alert the two that someone was coming. Why should he alert them in the first place, he didn’t really understand himself, but still it felt like a good thing to do.

They sat on the long, uncomfortable bench right next to the double refrigerators, Garrus’ long legs stretched out on the table in front and Shepard’s feet tucked neatly underneath it. There two bottles of beer next to each other – two brands, suitable and safe for each of their kind – and less than little of space between them. 

“Primarch,” they both said in greeting and Garrus moved to sit properly, his moves slow and strained when he tried to square his shoulders and straighten his back and the Primarch raised one hand quickly.

“Commander, Vakarian. At ease.” 

The younger turian deserved a break during his off duty time, so who was he to take it from him. It was not his ship to do so. Not his place to do so.

He heard Shepard sigh again – much lighter than just moments ago - as he opened the fridge with dextrofood supplies and in the peripheral of his eye he saw her rest her head tiredly against the shoulder pad of the turian’s armor. Her movement was fluid, sure and so casual that it boggled him in a flash, as his mind wrapped itself around all of those hushed whispers he choose to ignore up to this moment.

Because there were certain … insinuations about Shepard and Vakarian. Their friendship was solid and strong and never wavering, she trusted him like no one else - everyone knew that - but was she not aware of … gossip around her own ship? 

“There’s turian beer in there,” Shepard dressed him after a while, eyes closed and her fingers curling around the cool bottle, “Help yourself, Primarch, we all need it at one point or the other.” 

“It’s better than most of the food they serve here, too.” Garrus added quickly and she scoffed, elbowing him hard. He couldn’t have felt it, not with the thick of his armor and the softness of her strange, human clothing and the Patriarch stared at them for a moment with his own mouth threatening to fall open at the sight of the quick flare of Garrus’ mandibles.

Because there was a certain fondness in that wiseass grin as Garrus indulged her and made a fake, outraged sound in the back of his throat, caused her to laugh again and shake her head. 

He grabbed a bottle and tore the cap away, his hands suddenly shaking and a growl starting to raise deep within him. He wondered, were they even aware that he was still there with them?

The beer was cold and felt _so good_ against his constricted throat as he swallowed it down quickly. 

“It’s good to have you watching my six again, Garrus,” Shepard said, downing the rest of the beer and the Primarch’s stomach twisted suddenly.

The answer to his own question, it seemed, would be that they weren’t. 

Or they simply didn’t care. 

She still had her head resting against Garrus’ shoulder and the turian himself shifted ever so, to let her be more comfortable against all of his sharp lines and edges. He took a swing of his own drink and carefully leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes over a deep breath.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Commander.”

Victus muttered a quick good bye, one that fell on deaf ears it seemed, as the urge to get away from this strange something became too overwhelming for him to bear. He might have craved normal jut moments ago, even if it would be not _his_ kind of normal, but this? 

This was anything but. 

It was layers upon layers. It was a death wish and a resurrection, it was a hundred of chances and hard choices, it was a tumble of comfort and pain and trust and, and it was all too much to comprehend on a regular day. 

And what to make of it amidst war and destruction…?

The elevator’s door hissed open and before the Primarch could block everything out he heard Garrus sigh, but then he spoke  – quiet and soft, flanging and resonating through the empty mess - and it caused Victus to halt his steps for another second, strain his hearing despite everything.

“Well,” Garrus grumbled then, soft and fond, “I think it’s safe to say you’ve pretty much ruined me for the turians, Shepard.”

He had to be grinning, had to be, because there was that complexity, that double edge that was only heard when… Victus’ mind came to screeching halt and he slammed the console with a little too much force for it to register the chosen floor.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Vakarian.” Shepard’s voice was barely above a lazy whisper and this time, Victus had no problems in understanding what was she saying.

What they both were to each other,  what they meant; they said it with barely a few words at. 

He leaned back against the wall when the elevator moved, and rubbed his forehead. 

He should have taken more beer.

 

 


	6. only human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after "Priority: Palaven", during the very first visit in the Docks Holding Area.

It was frighteningly easy to forget who she really was; who resided underneath all of the armor and hardened, scarred skin. Everyone looked up to her for guidance and for orders, with her ability to escape death and bring justice forth painting her a hero, the Galaxy’s champion.

Somehow along the way, she started to believe it too, even if she never admitted that out loud.But she was dead at one time and then resurrected, reborn with a few more scars – scars that began to fade months ago - and a lot of cybernetics wired into her body. It was hard not to believe in her own legend. Hard to remember how to feel doubt and weakness,when courage and strength were so desperately needed, how to take uncertain steps when everyone expected a confident stroll. 

She was the peacemaker; settling issues with words and fists alike, befriending aliens and humans because their differences didn’t matter. Forging alliances everyone else considered impossible, bringing former enemies to work together under burning skies. 

Finding unexpected comfort in the arms of a turian somewhere along the way. Her knees weakened for that short moment when he appeared in front of her on Manae, all safe and sound and her heart almost leapt out of her chest in relief and the almost forgotten burst of happiness. He shook her hand, the hold strong and sure and they carried on like normal, like the soldiers they were.

But back on Normandy her steps were quicker than usual as she made her way to the Main Battery, wanting to see him as soon as possible, Primarch stuck in the war room be damned. Something seemed to burst deep inside her when Garrus skidded around the topic of _them_ and the feel of his scars _finally_ against her lips felt like coming home. She missed him during the past six months and finding her way back to him made her feel energised and confident, like the trials laid out before her were no obstacle at all.

But right now, her eyes were rimmed red and itchy, and her body felt laden.

She managed to find her way into the Docking area at the very long last and her heart tightened at the sight of all those refugees. 

She dragged her feet, listening to wails and chocked cries, to humans and batarians. The make shift med section was filled to the brim with the wounded, the doctors of all races shouting orders and yet, yet the blood kept dripping onto the once well kept floor.

The _drip-drop, drip-drop_ sound made her sick, made her force her body tomove until the sight of blue and silver caught her eye.

Now, the unknown turians were bustling around her, listening to the orders Garrus’ barked just seconds ago, when his gaze was still hard and focused on them. The smell of bandages and antiseptics made her stomach churn, as she listened to Garrus talk. When he told her about the Palaven slaughter, about the slim chances their survivors have,he looked away not to let her see. But she knew anyway and the pained moans and agonised grunts that comefrom every cramped corner caused her to swallow way quicker, way more often than she was ever used to.

She wanted to touch him, reassure him – this is what she _did_ after all, gave hope and strength and offered a shoulder to lean on -but they’re surrounded by his kin and she cares enough about him, not to put him in a compromising situation. 

There’s quite a lot of empty space between them, Shepard noticed over a heavy breath, but she could see the way the strong lights bounced on and off of his armor and the way his mandibles tightened when she asked about his family. But then his eyes were searching her face, so blue and bright and so missed during her lone nights in the brig. And when he asked her how _she_ is doing, it felt like something hard and heavy was suddenly peeled off of her back. 

Amidst all of the wounded and the dying, witnessing the blue of his eyes soften, against the legend she became over the last few years, Shepard found herself strangely unable to say anything but the truth. 

Maybe it was because Garrus deserved nothing else in the very least and when she opened her mouth, words were spilling, leaving her tight throat.

It’s only a few short words, nothing too descriptive; she’s Commander Shepard after all, defender of the Citadel, bane of the Collectors and Saviour of the Galaxy. She doesn’t break, doesn’t doubt, even if this is the third time the fate of the universe has been placed on her much too small shoulders.

His head tilted ever so to one side and for a second she felt like fidgeting under his bright gaze. When he finally spoke, even if the silence never truly begun to settle between them, his voice stirred something deep within her, something that resonated strong and fierce through bone and marrow. 

And Garrus only reminds her to come up for air. 

There’s a slight shift in his posture, the smallest twitch of his hand as he spoke of other people, humans and turian and every other race there is out there, but her breath was already caught tight in her chest and her eyes were wide. 

And even when Garrus took one small step, the space between them is _still_ there; and for a moment his reminder sounded nothing but absurd. In the onslaught of thoughts in her head, she discovered both bitterness and relief; bitterness, that she remained the hero, that she does seem untouchable and unbreakable because there are others who count on her to be just that.

And relief, bone crushing and sometimes unfamiliar, that Garrus knew what she needed to hear, even despite her silly admittance of being _just_ tired, of the task being a strain. He knew her best, after all, knew how to make her go on, push herself as far as she could…

 “Because I need you,” reached her ears and everything slows – her heartbeat, noise in her head, the whole damned world -before it seemed to fade away.

And so she kept looking at him, at those bright blue eyes, as her heart threatened to jump out of her chest over a sudden a kick-start. Because while she could barely recognise the variety of emotions in turian voices, the dual flanging making it impossible for her simple human hearing to do so, she already heard _this_ particular note. 

From this particular turian. 

And just like before, it made her breath catch and lungs burn, made her feel small and helpless and while she hated the feeling with a passion, she _loved_ him for being able to do all of this to her.

Remind her that she’s not only a living legend, not only the Commander, not the Saviour of the goddamn Galaxy.

Amidst the turians, wrapped in the smell of death and hopelessness, Garrus took one more step; the space is _still_ stretched and present between them, but his hand was warm and familiar on her elbow. 

Steadying her as Shepard’s shoulders suddenly slumped under the weight of all of their worlds.

The sharp lights kept on flickering on and off, on and off, as she allowed herself a fleeting moment of weakness. When she looked up, her eyes were clear once more and his hold was gone, but breathing suddenly become easier.

Shepard straightened her shoulders, brushed a tuft of bright red from her face and believed that at least this _something_ will turn out to be alright.  

 

 


	7. the thoughts that linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mass Effect 2 timeline, set after Horizon, pre-romance.  
> \------  
> Kaidan's reaction wasn't something any of them would have expected.

“EDI, I am _not_ here.” The words were rushed, quick and followed by a frantic punching at the control panel on the door. 

It was what caused Garrus to turn around, because while Shepard coming to see him at the end of her rounds was nothing unusual, her closing the door shut and ordering the AI to keep quiet about her whereabouts certainly was.

She kept her head down as she kicked the nearby crate, pushing it against the wall; slammed EDI’s console shut with a short bark - “log out EDI, _now!_ -” of a command. She plopped down heavily, shoulders hunched, two bottles in her hands, one for each of them he saw, and offered one to him, not once looking up.

“Drink?” Shepard asked, voice all wrong and no, she wasn’t really asking.

Garrus blinked, took the offered bottle and typed a few commands into the console with his left hand. The talons clicked over its surface, as it flared bright orange, then closed off with a soft sound, leaving the room filled only with the dim, red light.

She had scooted to the side of the crate already, pressed herself into the cold corner, enough room at her side for him to sit down. It was Shepard who needed a friend, it seemed. 

Not the Commander who looked for her Gunnery Chief. 

And so he sat down, his frame so much bulkier - his alien frame and all of his ruined armor combined - next to her, but Shepard never seemed to pay attention to it. She kept her eyes hidden from him, strands of hair, longer than he remembered, a veil, but pressed her knee to his for a second, fingers a knuckle-white grip on her beer. 

Next to him, she was a bundle of tight coiled muscle, wound tense over her reconstructed bones and Garrus waited, brought his bottle to his mouth. The dextrobased beer was cold in his throat, pleasantly so, the taste bitter and it fit somehow, in this quiet and the half dark, with Shepard next to him all wound tight.

“He said he fucking loved me.”  

When she spoke finally, half way through the bottle, ther words were quiet, kind of gritty and if it were possible for a turian, Garrus would cringe at the sound. 

But Kaidan did say exactly that, right after he hugged her so damn tight it made Garrus look away in respect of their privacy. And she seemed so happy then, for that short lived moment  and for the first time since she came back into Garrus' life, her face smoothing out underneath the blood and grime from the fight. 

Then it all went to hell, Kaidan’s voice turning sharp and accusing and Garrus never knew human faces could close off so fast. And yet, it happened not fast enough for him not to notice the lightning quick flash of pain before she tried to reason with him. Shepard not once raised her voice as she wanted say something - because how do you even begin to explain your own resurrection amidst a damned battlefield - that would cause Kaidan to see, to believe her - to believe in her - like he once did. 

And Kaidan didn’t.

He didn't even try, took a step back that said more than his next words. His voice heavy with disappointment, eyes dark as he regarded Garrus in the same bitter manner , before turning his back, wishing her good luck and walking away.  

“He said he loved me.” Shepard repeated, her voice turning sharp and Garrus shifted his weight a bit, bumped their knees again. “And for a moment there, I hoped… I actually thought he would join us.”

“I’m sorry, Shepard.”  

“Yeah,” she sighed, rubbed a hand over her face, before looking up at him, green eyes bleak. “Me too.” 

“Look. It’s been, uh,” he cleared his throat, unsure what to say and how to say anything at all.  “I know it’s been just a moment for you, but we all still mourned you. You were dead.” 

“But I’m _not_ anymore.” That bleakness was starting to fade, making way for that hard edged glint Garrus knew so well, “And I am _me_ , I know _me_ , I wouldn’t let … Am I grateful to Cerberus for bringing me back to life? Yes, I am. Do I let my gratitude blind me to their motives? Fuck, _no_.”  

She ran that hand through her hair, pushing it all back as she straightened her back, squared her shoulders and looked at him, brows furrowed. 

“I am me.” She repeated firmly, stubbornly like she wanted to make sure Garrus realised that.

“I know.” Garrus shifted his weight again, scratched the side of his face in a slightly confused manner. “I knew it the moment I saw you in my scope.” 

There was never any doubt it was her; and maybe yeah, her armor was slightly altered, a visor in place of a helmet and the overall coloration different, than he remembered, but he _knew_ it was her. He mourned her, he was at the memorial, felt the loss of not only a mentor, but a damned good friend like a constant deep, ever-bleeding wound. But the moment the mercs flooded the bridge and amidst the chaos he saw her in the crosshairs of his rifle… he knew what he saw was real. 

_Shepard is alive,_ he remembered thinking, his blood louder in his ears than the gunfire and death screams. _The odds got just a lot better,_ he said to his father and cut the call short, switched to concussive rounds for a second, saw her shields flicker - saw her brows furrow in that annoyed, familiar, _missed_ way -  when the shotwent through and the mercs' screams began.   

Now she looked at her hands for a second, turned them palms up, flexed her fingers a couple of times. “I can’t say there weren’t times I wondered about it,” she admitted uncomfortably, rubbed the back of her neck and her elbow bumped into the hard surface of his armor. “As you can imagine, Miranda didn’t exactly spare me the details of my ,ah, resurrection or of everything they’ve put inside of me to get me back. Seems all’s alright and nothing’s been altered, much to her disappointment it seems, but…”

“Well,save from that scar,” Garrus interrupted pointed to the spot over one of his brow plates, and she rubbed at her own brow almost on reflex, right there where the scar from Akuze used to be. “Can’t say you’re anything but yourself, Shepard.” 

She turned to him sharply and on any other occasion it would impress him, how she managed to move so effortlessly in a small space between an armored turian and a metal wall. Her bottle was empty already, left at her feet while he still clung to his.

“What?” He grumbled, his tone defensive, because there was a strange accusation in the way she looked at him.  

“You believed me.” Shepard said slowly, a slightly thoughtful note creeping into her voice. “When I said Cerberus is a necessary evil.” 

Garrus blinked at the reminder, took the last swing of his drink and cocked his head to the side. “In case you haven't noticed, I have a habit of trusting my friends, Shepard.” 

“Yeah. My point exactly. You trusted me, Garrus.” She leaned onto the wall, bit her lip as she looked at the console on the other side of the room. It almost felt like she wanted to say something more, like they were on the edge of something strange. But then, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and made herself as comfortable as it was possible against the thrum of cold metal. “I just need to think this through.”

Garrus nodded, despite her not being able to see the gesture, and got up from the crate, felt an annoying little crick in his left knee. 

She didn’t seem like leaving anytime soon and he didn’t mind. It was nice to have some company when he worked, kind of like on the old Normandy; Shepard used to hang around with him as he worked his best on the Mako after she’d done her rounds around the deck. She’d ask questions back then, especially at first, but as their mission progressed, she’d just hop on on the hood and sat there in silence, watching him do his best on the battered girl. 

“And I’ve got some firing algorithms to work out.” He sighed, scratched the still healing wound on his face a little, mandibles flaring in a small smile. “Take your time, Shepard. I got you covered.”

“So good to have you on board, big guy.” Shepard muttered back, stretched her legs out and Garrus fired the console back up. 

He smiled again, felt the wound pull at half of his face. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Commander.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr


End file.
